France x Reader. Sex Lines.

    You thumbed through the fashion magazine, tapping your foot on the ground and munching on a piece of gum that had lost it's berry sweet taste long ago. Boredom was slowly creeping onto you when the phone sitting on the table beside you rang, breaking the silence.

    You smiled and set the magazine down, picking up the phone and answering, "Hello? (Name)'s  sex-line, how may I please you?" You had jitters, it was your first caller ever. Your friend talked you into running her sex line for a week while she was on vacation, since she stated that you had a sexy voice.

    "(Name), ohonhonhon, I never thought I'd hear your beautiful voice on this line." Francis teased, you could practically see him posing on his couch like if he was being painted, a wine glass in one hand, the phone in the other.

    "Francis, you know I'm running the lines for a week," you retorted, blushing at the thought of having to sex talk to Francis, "don't act all innocent."

     He gasped dramatically, "Ma cherie, you are so prude! I simply called to hear a wonderful art form, and I get this?"

     A wonderful art form? In France, probably.

     "Francis, get off the line." You sighed.

     "But I'm paying," he protested, "now please me."

     Well, he is paying.